


Food, Glorious Food

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Cooking, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 01:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20612627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: Some doubt is expressed about British cooking.  As it happens, Gil and Colette have an invitation to lunch at Wooster's, so they will get a chance to experience it for themselves......maybe.





	Food, Glorious Food

**Author's Note:**

> I'm British. I'm allowed to take the mickey out of my own national cuisine, right?

“Hmpf,” said Gil. “And whose fault was that, then, DuPree?”

The two of them were sitting with Colette in one of the many coffee bars in Paris, discussing precisely why Gil and Colette had been invited to lunch at Wooster’s place on Saturday but DuPree had been somewhat pointedly excluded from the invitation. Colette was mildly puzzled about this. Gil, on the other hand, was not.

DuPree gave an amused shrug. “Hey. I was bored.”

“That is no reason to dislocate anyone’s shoulder,” Gil pointed out.

Colette stared at DuPree. “You dislocated his shoulder? Why?”

“Practice. I mean, he was standing in exactly the right position...”

“Nobody is going to invite you to lunch if you cause them grievous bodily harm at the first meeting,” said Gil patiently.

“He would if I asked him to,” said DuPree, grinning dangerously and suddenly producing a knife from somewhere about her person. It glinted wickedly as she tossed it from hand to hand. “In fact, I think I would, just for kicks, if I thought I was going to get a decent meal. You know the British can’t cook.”

It was at precisely this moment that the group was joined by Zola, who was, as usual, making a beeline for Gil. She had naturally heard this last remark. “Oooh, you’re so right,” she said. “Especially if you’re a vegetarian like me.”

Colette rolled her eyes. Zola was generally a vegetarian about a quarter of the time, and whenever she was, she always acted as if she’d been one all her life. “I beg to differ,” she said. “I am fairly sure Wooster can cook. Does he look unhealthy to you?”

“Oh, him...” said Zola, vaguely. She was clearly trying to put a face to the name.

“Well, he’s young,” DuPree pointed out. “I mean, at his age you can get away with wolfing down dumplings and tapioca pudding and whatever other stodge they eat, and still look healthy. Wait till he’s fifty. He’ll be built like an airship.”

“I’ve seen what he likes to eat,” said Gil. “And apart from a taste for sticky gingerbread, which I’m happy to admit to sharing, it’s pretty healthy.”

“Doesn’t mean he can cook it himself, though,” said DuPree. “When he’s out, he may just be glad to get away from his own cooking. You don’t know.”

“Speaking of food,” said Zola, “Gil, I wondered if you’d like to come to lunch on Saturday...”

Gil shook his head. “Sorry, Zola. Colette and I are going to Wooster’s. But I suppose I could ask him if he could stretch to another guest,” he added quickly, seeing the disappointment on her face.

“Don’t,” said DuPree, sheathing the knife at last. “You’ll be constipated for the next two weeks.”

“Well… I mean, if he’s all right with vegetarian food...” said Zola, fluttering her eyelashes at Gil. Colette sighed inwardly. It wasn’t just the fact that Zola was a shameless flirt; why did the girl always have to be so damned pink and frilly? This time, she’d even got frills on her handbag, and that, in Colette’s opinion, was totally over-egging it.

Gil caved. “I’ll ask him.”

“You’ll regret it,” said DuPree, in a gleeful sing-song.

And so, on Saturday, Gil, Colette, and a thoroughly over-frilled Zola showed up at the door of Wooster’s modest but comfortable flat. As he opened the door to them, they were immediately assailed by a melange of delicious scents, topmost among them that of freshly baked bread. “Ah,” he said, smiling, “welcome, all of you. Superb timing; the pittas are ready to come out about now. Please take your seats.”

He disappeared back into the kitchen, and came out wheeling a trolley from which he took small plates and several appetising-looking dishes. There was the fresh pitta bread, still hot from the oven. There were two dishes of dips, which Wooster explained were hummus and baba ganoush, both made that morning. There was garlic roasted in its skin, so that you could squeeze out the soft mellow clove onto your pitta bread like sauce from a tube; two kinds of olives, with plenty of cocktail sticks on hand to avoid greasy fingers; zesty sundried tomatoes; and a huge bowl of salad, with a bottle of home-made dressing so that it could be applied to taste.

Gil stared. “Wow,” he said. “This is quite some meal. I’m not going to miss the meat.”

“Oh, this is just the hors d’oeuvre,” Wooster smiled, sitting down to join his guests. “I trust everyone is hungry?”

Everyone was. “Gosh, this is delicious,” said Colette. “Baba ganoush, did you say? What’s it made of?”

“Aubergines, mostly,” replied their host, helping himself to hummus.

“Could I please have the recipe?”

“Indeed you may. Please remind me at the end of the meal.”

Once that course was finished, Wooster gathered up all the plates and the remains of the food (not that there were many), put them back on the trolley and returned to the kitchen. A little later, he returned with the trolley full again. He handed round larger plates, then started to unload the food to the table. This time the centrepiece was a cauliflower, roasted whole in a colourful sauce redolent of spices. Then there were bowls of mushroom madras, vegetable sambhar, tadka masoor dhal, chana masala, saag tofu, and various drier subzis. Plates of dosas and rice idlis joined them as accompaniments, and, finally, about half a dozen miniature sauce boats containing a selection of freshly made chutneys.

“My goodness,” breathed Colette. “You must have been cooking all morning. I’m spoilt for choice here!”

“Oh, do have a little of everything,” Wooster beamed. “I had fun making it, so I’d love everyone to enjoy eating it.”

“This looks pretty authentic, too,” said Gil. “Are you by any chance part Indian yourself?”

“Yes, indeed. My mother was from Lucknow. This is, therefore, semi-authentic; it isn’t standard Lucknow fare, on the whole. It mainly originates from the south of India. But she had a lot of family in Kerala, so she could do southern cooking, and she very often did.”

“All I’ll say to that is that we’re in luck now as a result,” said Gil, with a grin.

“Puns are the lowest form of wit,” said Colette, straight-faced.

Only Zola looked a little nervous. “Are the spices very hot?” she asked.

“Oh, some of them are, yes. But not all; I wasn’t sure who liked what, so I made a variety. You should be fine with the cauliflower and the masoor dhal...”

She blinked at him. “The what now?”

“The lentils,” Wooster translated smoothly. “And the rice idlis, which are these things here. And probably the brinjal subzi...”

“Aubergine,” said Colette.

“Aubergine. Indeed. And this is raita, which is tangy but not spicy.”

Gil grinned. “So everything else is good and hot?”

Wooster nodded. “Precisely so.”

“Excellent!”

Some time later, the remnants of the main course were returned to the trolley as before, and as Wooster pushed it back towards the kitchen he looked over his shoulder and grinned at his guests. “I trust you all have room for pudding,” he said.

“I’m supposed to be on a diet,” said Zola.

“Tch. I would not say you had a weight problem, Mademoiselle,” replied Wooster gallantly, and, indeed, also quite truthfully.

Gil smiled wryly at Colette as the kitchen door closed behind their host. “Whatever DuPree says, I’m pretty certain it’s not going to involve any tapioca.”

“It’s been a wonderful meal so far,” Colette agreed. “But I think we hadn’t better tell DuPree. We don’t want her forcing an invitation out of him with that knife.”

“H’mm. A good point. I could lean on her heavily...”

“You can lean on me, if you like,” Zola piped up.

“You’d snap,” Colette muttered, under her breath.

The pudding, indeed, did not involve any tapioca. Given the amount of food everyone had already eaten, Wooster had had the good sense to keep this course very light; so there was a huge bowl of fruit salad with home-made ice cream, which, as he conscientiously explained to Zola, was made from cashew nuts.

“As was the raita, in fact,” he said. “I didn’t know if you ate dairy, so I decided I had better err on the side of caution.”

“Cashew nuts?! That’s different,” said Colette. “Now I have to try that.”

“Me too,” said Gil.

“Ooo,” said Zola.

The ice cream was pronounced excellent by all, and Wooster then invited everyone into his small sitting room for coffee. “By the way,” said Colette, “you will not be washing up. You have made us the most marvellous lunch, and it must have taken a great deal of work; so I will wash, and these two will dry.”

“But my nails...” Zola protested, feebly.

“Zola. If they break, I’m quite sure you have a repair kit somewhere in that ridiculous handbag. You will pick up a tea towel and use it. It’s the very least you can do.”

“I couldn’t possibly let you do that,” said Wooster. “You are my guests.”

“Heh,” said Gil. “Well, I’m going to back Colette up here. You want to argue with both of us?”

“By the way,” said Colette, “where on earth did you learn to cook like that? I know you seem to be good at everything you do, but you’ve really excelled yourself this time.”

Wooster bowed. “Thank you very much. That’s most kind.”

“So where did you learn?” Colette persisted.

“Well,” replied Wooster, “put it this way. It wasn’t in England.”


End file.
